(Barrister Jerry anticipates dining on his beef-on-weck as Tex the bartender looks on. The sandwich is served with condiments of Duke’s mayonnaise, sautéed onions, grated horseradish and topped by three deep-fried olives. You can do all sorts of mischief with a deep fryer. Photo Socotra).
The anticipation had been building all week. People were coming to town from all the points of compass: across the street, down the block and Vancouver, British Columbia in the case of Jon-without-an-H.
The occasion was beef-on-weck night at Willow, the last Friday of the month. Last Friday for a lot of things, I thought. The old office is going to shut down, and relocate to the Headquarters up Glebe Road, not that it means much to me personally any more.
In a week, I will be out of Tunnel 8 and into a new unit. There is a lot still to be done, and a lot of crap to be hauled to somewhere else. I am in denial, and I do not mean that river in Egypt. It is all going to happen, ready or not.
I do not feel ready- sort of like the President’s pivot toward the economy this summer. He was in Illinois someplace talking about investing in a bunch of stuff, the way I heard it. No specifics that I was aware of, but I know he is eager to change the tone of the conversation as Fall begins to loom beyond the horizon of summer.
It was a Friday in the flower of Arlington’s high summer, with a break in the humid heat and most folks with any sense are out of town. That is why Tracey O’Grady feels the need to drum up some business, and thus has commissioned the Charbroil Grill to be established on the patio each Friday. Coming in conjunction with the Last Friday, it was a festival of foods at Willow.
The beef on weck- locally raised, hormone-free, humanely slaughtered, slow-cooked steamer round thinly sliced and piled high on one of Kate Jansen’s Kemmelweck rolls topped with sea-salt and fennel- looked unreal. On the patio, the Buffalo, NY, theme continued with Sahlen’s natural casing hot dogs being grilled up at a steep discount.
They have been making those sausages up on the shores of Lake Erie since 1869, and Tracy endorses them as “most authentic.”
So, anticipation mingled with dread was about the way the day was shaping up. The ache from even the low-impact workout in the pool stayed with me as I navigated the Panzer over to Willow.
There is a brief window of street parking remaining. I got one of the metered spots in front of Tex’s black SUV and dropped some of Mom’s magic bag of quarters into the slot.
Then I limped across the street toward Willow. The aches and pains wear off a bit with forward motion, reminding me that me choices come back to haunt us, don’t they? Perhaps those years of contact sports and high-impact distance running were not the smartest ways to pass the time?
Oh well- the aches and pains today were well worth the feeling of being bulletproof then. I think.
I strolled into the bar to see Old Jim at his customary place at the apex of the Amen Corner. Heather one was behind the bar, clad in black, and showing some cleavage. The place was starting to fill up- the owners of Liberty Tavern in Clarendon were down the bar, taking a busman’s holiday for a drink outside the pandemonium of the 20-something crowd that takes over their place on a Friday afternoon.
The regulars filled up the corner- the Lovely Bea was there on the other side of Jim, no placid graceful Jamie, who is off on assignment for the Accounting Firm. Barrister Jerry rolled in, all dark-suited legal efficiency, and the rest of the usual suspects turned out, including a surprise appearance of The Other Russian.
TOR is just back from a trip to the homeland. “He is not there,” he said, in his accented English.
“Who isn’t there? Putin?”
He scowled and then smiled. “No, your Snowden traitor.”
“What do you mean,” I asked. “Everyone says he is in the transit lounge at Sheremetyevo International.”
“Was just there. Is too small for concealment. He is someplace else with a better shower.”
“Well I’ll be damned. News that isn’t true? That is a first.”
TOR shrugged. “Putin doesn’t want him, either, but our Administration does not want him back before the next election.”
“He is a jerk,” I said. “Nobel cause syndrome run amok.”
“Mr. Holder says we will not kill or torture him if he is repatriated.”
“Pity,” I said.
Tracy O’Grady herself came out to chat as the steamer round was resting after an afternoon in the oven. “I just watched Anthony Bourdain,” she said. “I was interested because we are doing the grill on Fridays, and he is doing hot dogs on his Travel Channel Show “Layover.””
“I like him. He is irreverent, and what a gig he has.”
Tracy looked dubious. “the segment I watched was from Crif Dogs on the lower east side in New York. He was describing deep-fried dogs a deep fried dog with a Wd 50 hot dog bun, battered deep fried mayo, tomato molasses, shredded lettuce and dried onions- but in reality it turned out to be kind of bland. Too much bun and lettuce, it looked like.”
“Wait, deep friend mayonnaise? How do you do that?”
Tracy turned professional. “It is that molecular gastronomy thing. I would think you could chill the mayo until it is malleable, coat it in batter and deep-fry it.”
“That sounds appalling,” growled Jim. “No wonder Americans are fat.”
“What would you top it with?” I wondered. “Mayo? Do you make your own mayonnaise here?”
Tracy stayed serious. “For some applications, yes. But for ordinary purposes, we use Duke’s Mayo. It is quite good.”
“Is the beef done resting?” asked Barrister Jerry. “I am ready to be wecked.”
Tracy allowed as how she would check and see if the sandwiches were ready to come out, and disappeared into the back of the house. We talked about British Columbia and were starting to sing along with the sixties music that Tex was pumping out on Pandora.
Thankfully, Jerry’s sandwich came out and decorum was restored as we marveled at what a lawyer can to do red meat.
“Goes with the trade, I think,” I observed to Jim.
“I am going to stick with the halibut slider,” he said, and asked Tex for one of those, hold the mayo, hot sauce on the side, and another Bud.
“You going to get Wecked?” asked Jon-without.
I pondered Jerry demolishing his sandwich, feeling vaguely queasy. “I think I really ought to have the salad,” I said. “But maybe deep-fried mayo on the side.”
If you are that nuts, here is the recipe:
Deep Fried Mayonnaise (Feeds 2).
Batch of 4, 2 each.
· 1/2 qt. Duke’s Mayonnaise
· 2 x Egg-Whites
· 1 x Slice of Sourdough Bread
· 2 tsp. Corn Starch
· 2 tsp. White Unbleached Flour
· 1/2 qt. Canola Oil
Place Mayonnaise in freezer, wait two hours. Start with a glass of Happy Hour White. De-crust bread while you are still competent to operate a sharp knife. Remove crust from dried/toasted slice of sourdough bread. Blend in food processor on HIGH for ten seconds.
Heat Bertolli’s extra virgin olive oil on stove. In small bowl combine egg-whites, flour, corn starch, mix lightly, then fold in breadcrumbs. Remove Duke’s Mayonnaise from freezer. Scoop a sphere of Mayonnaise 1″ in diameter. Roll sphere in batter. Drop sphere in oil. Remove when golden-brown. Repeat. Serve hot with Secret Sauce.
Secret Sauce: I told you. What is better to top fried mayonnaise than….
· 2 tbsp. Mayonnaise
· 2 tsp. ketchup
Mix well, until monochrome, either you or them.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com